


The Sex Shirt

by rpfwriters



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Smut, Language, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 15:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpfwriters/pseuds/rpfwriters
Summary: Chris wears your favorite shirt at a stop on the press tour.Inspired by the photo found on Pinterest from the Korean Press Tour for Captain America Civil War (I think).





	The Sex Shirt

“Jesus, Evans, could you have squeezed into a tinier shirt?” Robert guffawed, loud enough to draw attention to himself and Chris. “Or maybe one less see through? I can see your damn nipples.”

The words were like a magnet, drawing everyone to him. They gathered in a rough circle, looking him over with a critical eye.

Paul, of course, was shaking his head, Scarlett and Elizabeth were giggling, Seb and Anthony were holding each other up and laughing, Chadwick was standing beside Tom, both of them shaking their heads and trying not to smile.

Chris just smiled and shrugged. He knew why he was wearing the shirt and who he was wearing it for. He’d take all the ribbing he had to because he knew exactly what the shirt was going to do to you when you saw it. He couldn’t wait.

Thirty seconds later, the announcer started calling their names. Show time.

 

* * *

You felt totally out of your element, though you always did at these things. It always amazed you how at ease Chris always seemed, but of course, he was surrounded by people he considered his friends, while you were usually hanging out with the bloodthirsty press. You’d tried to get him to let you stay at the hotel, hide out until he was done, but he’d insisted you come. He’d even promised you a surprise if you came with him. You’d agreed, reluctantly.

That was why you were sitting in the front row of the huge auditorium, waiting for the cast to be introduced. You tried to ignore the stares of the reporters sitting around you, looking straight ahead, fiddling with the badge around your neck. You straightened in your seat when the first name of Chris’s fellow castmates was called.

Chris was the second last one to come on stage, just before Robert Downey, Jr. (who’d told you about a hundred times to call him Bob, but you just couldn’t do it). The second Chris stepped on the stage, you started giggling, your hand over your mouth.

He was wearing  _the_  shirt, the tiny, black, definitely-too-small-for-him shirt that you loved so much. He’d pulled it out of the dresser drawer months ago, not long after he’d started his hard-core, Cap workouts, tugging it on to run out for bagels. He had wiggled his arms and tugged at the sleeves, to no avail. You had been giggling and shaking your head, earning you Chris’s raised eyebrow look.

“What’s so funny?” he’d grumbled.

“That shirt is too small,” you’d grinned.

“Yeah?” Chris had muttered. “Maybe I should change it?”

“No, I like it,” you’d laughed.

Chris had leaned over the back of the couch where you were lying with Dodger, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck, pulling you close, kissing you. “Yeah? How much do you like it?” he murmured.

You liked it so much that you’d wrapped your arms around his neck and dragged him down onto the couch with you, pushing Dodger to the floor. Chris had nestled himself between your legs, kissing you while you traced every muscle emphasized by the tight, black shirt.  

Needless to say, he hadn’t made it out for bagels.

After that, any time the shirt came out of the drawer, you were all over Chris. You couldn’t help yourself; it was tight in all the right places, emphasizing his arms, his pecs, that insane shoulder to waist ratio of his, the material stretched so thin that you could see skin. The more he worked out, the closer it had gotten to filming, the tighter the damn shirt got. It had become a running joke between the two of you; Chris had even given it a nickname. The sex shirt.

And now the bastard was standing on a stage, in front of hundreds of people, a smirk on his bearded face, his hands shoved in his pockets, rocking back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe, staring out over the crowd. When his eyes landed on you, he winked, the evil grin on his face growing wider.

Bastard.

You dragged in a deep breath, trying to get your racing pulse and overstimulated brain to calm down, though it didn’t seem to help. You could feel heat flooding your cheeks and pooling deep in the pit of your stomach, your desire for Chris ratcheting up with every move he made. You crossed your legs, squeezing your thighs together, biting back the moan ready to fall from your lips. Your fingers were tingling just thinking about getting your hands on him in that shirt. You were practically drooling. Jesus, you were like Pavlov’s dogs.

You shifted uneasily, attempting and failing to ease the ache between your legs, the movement catching Chris’s eye. He laughed and winked, which only made you blush harder, made you want him more. Then, to make it worse, he flexed his arm, stretching the t-shirt to its limits. You closed your eyes and prayed for patience, because you were about two seconds away from vaulting over the edge of the stage and jumping him right there. That would make for quite the news story.

Twenty minutes later, it was over, the cast clearing the stage. One of the handlers appeared from backstage, gesturing for you to follow him. You squeezed past the reporters sitting beside you, mumbling “excuse me” under your breath. You hurried after the man with the earpiece, following him through the crowd and then through a side door. You were halfway down a dimly lit hallway, when Chris stepped out of one of the rooms you had just passed and grabbed your arm. He pulled you inside and pushed the door closed with his foot. He pushed you against the door, his hands on your waist, his beard tickling your neck as he dropped his head to press his lips against your throat.

“Did you like your surprise?” he whispered.

“The sex shirt?” you breathed. “You’re a bastard, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “But you love it.”


End file.
